Barton, Undercover (5 plus 1)
by rukushaka
Summary: He does the jobs they're given and he does the other jobs, too, the ones his team knows nothing about. James, Brandt, Cross, Donnelly: they are all Clint Barton. Five times he didn't need backup and one time he did. No slash.
1. James

**I don't own it.**

 **Here we go: 6 chapters of undercover Clint Barton, none of which actually contain the words Clint or Barton. He's undercover, come on, he wouldn't slip up like that. It'll make more sense if you've seen the following movies (spoilers for 'em, obviously): The Hurt Locker, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, The Bourne Legacy, Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, and Arrival. In that order.**

* * *

 **The Hurt Locker**

* * *

He's playing the cocky maverick this time. Sergeant First Class William James, the reckless adrenaline junkie living on borrowed time.

He goes all-out for the first five or six days, scaring the wits out of his bomb squad until they're about ready to murder him. _Endangering lives,_ says Sanborn, one sergeant to another. _Gonna get us killed one day,_ says Eldridge, young and terrified. James doesn't care. _It's borrowed time_ , he tells them. _Live it while you've got it, 'cause you're only ever a breath away from death_.

But it's not just him. They're all living on borrowed time out here ( _here_ : Iraq, 2008), and he would be a fool not to realise it.

It's a relief to rein in the worst of the arrogance, to let the tension and the teamwork seep past James' careful barriers and ground him a little. He dials back on the recklessness. Listens to his unit. Eldridge is so close to edge he'll take anything James can give him, a pat on the shoulder, technical advice, a kind word, _good job out there today, you're doing fine, you're doing just fine._ By contrast, Sanborn watches him carefully, almost suspiciously, like he thinks James might go crazy and blow them up for kicks.

But after the night of drinking Sanborn finds him, says _sorry for pulling a knife on you, it was just too much, you know?_ and James nods and says _yeah, man, I know, sorry for riling you up like that._

And things settle, as they always do.

He does the jobs they're given, and he does the other jobs, too, the ones his unit know nothing about. When they ask questions he brushes them off, tells them he's been gambling, visiting a brothel, praying at the chapel, tracking Beckham's killers. And when Beckham's right there in the courtyard like he never left, trying to sell them cheap DVDs, James doesn't talk to him. Does his best not to see him. Like he hadn't closed the boy's lifeless eyes. Hadn't defused a bomb and dug it out of the boy's flayed chest cavity.

The kids always hit him hardest. Even SFC James isn't immune to that.

He doesn't look at Beckham, just hops in the truck and lights a cigarette with hands that shake for no reason. Sanborn and Eldridge don't look at him, not until they're well down the road on the way to the next objective, but James can feel them looking at each other in the rear view mirror, holding a silent conversation.

He knows his unit has secrets. Everybody has secrets.

 _Keep an eye on Sanborn,_ Command had told him, so he does.

He doesn't understand why until years later.


	2. Brandt

**I don't own it.**

 **Chapter 2 of 6, here we go...**

* * *

 **Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol**

* * *

He should have seen the headshot coming. Sniper, four o'clock, perfect kill shot, dead centre between the eyes. He might have seen it if he was himself. But instead, he's William Brandt ( _here:_ Moscow, 2011). IMF, ex-field agent, current senior analyst. He's in a Hugo Boss suit. He's wearing a Versace tie. He's never even heard of the guy who made his shoes, they're so far above his usual spec.

Before Ethan Hunt hopped into the car, Brandt was doing one job. But now the Secretary is dead, and he's on the run and doing two jobs at once, and he's pretty sure Hunt knows who he is.

No, not _him._ Brandt.

He holds it together through the Burj Khalifa fiasco. Resists the urge to tear strips off Hunt. The man seems to run on nothing more than coffee fumes and his latest mad idea, which in this case involves _giving away nuclear launch codes._

And he thought SFC James was a maverick.

James was nothing compared to this guy.

They're on the same side, mostly, so he doesn't snap the guy's neck for pointing a loaded pistol at him. Hunt wasn't stupid enough to take the safety off, luckily for him. If he _had,_ Brandt… well. Wouldn't have been happy. So he disarms Hunt, nice and slow like Brandt would, and Hunt demands an explanation for his skills. Brandt has the story prepped, of course he does, but before he can say anything Hunt's run off again to follow a lead.

Ethan Hunt trusts Benji, which is saying something. He trusts Jane, too.

But he doesn't trust Brandt, not after that show.

The plan, then, is a simple matter of emotion. Gain Benji and Jane's trust, and through them gain Hunt's. Easily done. He spills the backstory to them while Hunt is gone.

By the time they hit Mumbai he's worn three different suits in the last forty eight hours, all very expensive, and he's fairly sure he's getting an ulcer. The teeth-grinding isn't all Brandt. There's a fair amount of the man behind Brandt in there, too. He's tired of the politicking, tired of trying to do two jobs on the strength of half a plan. His fingers are itching for a sharp knife and a clean fight, he doesn't really care against who.

The chance comes. He makes it last _._

Afterward, he spills his sob story to the man himself. Ethan forgives him and spills some intel of his own.

Bingo.

He takes the phone with the mission briefing, because the man may be insane but he's also useful.

He also takes the suits.

He's starting to _like_ the suits.


	3. Cross

**I don't own it.**

 **Thanks for reviewing! :)**

* * *

 **The Bourne Legacy**

* * *

 _Part One_

* * *

He's in too deep, he knows it but there's nothing he can do ( _here:_ Alaska, 2012). Coming over the mountain was hard enough. Aaron gets the intel from the contact at the hut, but then there's the drone, the tracking chip, the _wolves._ Whatever HQ did to his chems to make this whole thing work, it's playing havoc with his system. He's ready to pull the plug on the way south, but then he gets the call from Command. They need the doctor, they need her _alive._

The chems, conveniently, give Aaron Cross, Outcome Five, an excellent excuse to gate-crash the doc in Maryland.

He swaps the heavy-duty snow gear for jeans and a leather jacket. Sees the news report about the lab shooting and floors it.

Aaron pulls her out of there by the skin of their teeth. The blood sings in his veins. For a few precious minutes it even drowns out the pounding in his head, the sharp stabbing behind his eyes. He slips into the flow of battle, the out-thinking of an enemy, the clean through-and-through of a good shot, the silent slide of a knife. As soon as the last goon (person, they're a person, they're as human as he is) is dead, he forces himself out of the headspace.

And finds himself more shaken than he'd like to admit.

He's never enjoyed killing. He's good at it, yes, because it's all part and parcel of the job. But he's never _enjoyed_ it. This calm taking of life might be necessary — imperative, even, when it's either him or them going home in a body bag — but _enjoying it?_ The thought is anathema.

He's not about to start now.

The doc's all but incoherent with hysteria and shock and waning adrenaline. He can understand that. She's been through a lot in the last two days.

But so has Aaron. It's all he can do not to shake her until her teeth rattle. _Where are the chems?_ he says, and gets an empty look in response. _The chems, blues, greens, I need them. Where are they?_

Blank stare. Stammering. _I — I don't know. Not here._

He takes her face between his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her pupils are clear. No signs of concussion or drugs. No flickering guilt. She's telling the truth.

Ten minutes later they're on their way out, the house in flames behind them. He steals a car and drives them east, drilling her on the cover story along the way. She's still fighting hysteria; he finds an excuse to pull off the road and hop out, clear his head, clear both their heads. The stabbing behind his eyes is back. He feels the dead-end closing in.

And then she says the magic words, _I can viralise it,_ and he sees the way out.

The government's on their tail. He needs to keep moving, to keep her alive. Aaron is worried about the chems running out, of course he is. The blues keep him smart. He's got a long way to fall. And the doc is his ticket to freedom.

He chokes down a couple of painkillers which do nothing, spends a sleepless night working on fake passports, and they're on a flight to Manila almost before the doc knows what's hit her.


	4. Brandt Again

**I don't own it.**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing! :)**

* * *

 **Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation**

* * *

Three years and a couple of attempted worldwide disasters later, he's back working for Ethan Hunt, the crazy man who never has more than half a plan.

IMF agent William Brandt ( _here:_ Virginia, 2015) is undercover this time, which is a major coincidence, _honestly,_ since it means he can work on several jobs at once _._ Officially, it's another office job. He gets to wear the suits again. This time he spruces them up with natty waistcoats, rolls his shirt sleeves to the elbow, uses his glasses when he wants to. It all adds to the image.

He sends a photo to a blocked number once, in a spare five minutes when he's absolutely sure he's safe and unobserved and he can afford to let the mask drop.

The reaction leaves him grinning for days.

He gets a dozen jobs done for Command in the space of six short weeks, and then another handful in the next five months. Both sides think he's busy maintaining his cover for the other guys, and neither of them stop to think that maybe there are more than two players on his game board, and that maybe this isn't so much Chess as it is Settlers of Catan.

He's always loved that game.

Brandt is mostly in the background, which makes a nice change. It's a lot of paperwork and toadying up and bureaucracy, which isn't so nice, but he's never been one to miss a chance at brushing up on his polygraph skills.

And, miracle of miracles, Ethan actually tells him slightly more than half of the plan this time. Okay, it's not much more than half. Maybe 52%. He'll take what he can get.

Brandt spends months in neat suits, pressed shirts and sharp waistcoats, and he loves it. He wouldn't want to wear them all the time. Kevlar's fine when he needs it, leather jackets are great, jeans and a flannel shirt are super. But when the occasion calls for it… yeah. The suits are _fantastic._

Double-crosses and triple-crosses happen, as they do. He's not often on the receiving end, which he has to admit feels pretty good. He only likes surprises when he's the one springing them.

He does spring them. He springs them _hard._

And laughs about it afterward, so much that he nearly falls off his chair.

Sometimes he loves his job.

When Solomon Lane is dead, Brandt flies home under another name and finds a new wardrobe full of clothes waiting for him. Every suit he's worn in the last seven months, and then some.

Even the shoes are there.

He still doesn't know the designer's name.


	5. Donnelly

**I don't own it.**

 **Next chapter's the big one - and by 'big' I mean both 'the finale' and 'long'. Average chapter length so far has been around 500 words; the next chapter is 2,000. Here we go.**

* * *

 **Arrival**

* * *

They pull him out of retirement for this one. He's about to argue, to say his family needs him more, but his family gives him A Look and a firm _Go save the world again. Come back to us._

So he goes ( _here:_ Montana, 2016).

Doctor Ian Donnelly is a civilian with a Ph.D. in theoretical physics. He wears glasses. Has a penchant for borrowing digital camouflage jackets from their military escorts. Drinks whatever coffee he can find (milk, no sugar) without caring at all about the quality. And, at least to appearances, he enjoys working nights in the lab while his colleague Louise Banks, Doctor of Linguistics, falls asleep at her desk beside him.

In reality, he's something of a glorified protection detail. But he does wear glasses, and drink terrible coffee, and use a camo jacket like a second skin, and speak the language of multivariate calculus without breaking a sweat.

Archers are good at physics, and he's been brushing up on the quantum stuff since 2012.

He's _very_ good.

They make a couple of small breakthroughs. He sees the way Louise spaces out, the heartbroken look in her eyes. Ian doesn't push. She'll tell him when she's ready, or not.

Then they get the big breakthrough. They go back up to talk to Abbott and Costello. Every instinct screams at him, but he can't pinpoint why until the bomb goes off. A single crazed thought flashes through his mind, _Iraq Iraq Sanborn where's Wilson I need you,_ before the concussion force hits and everything goes black.

No double vision. No memory loss. It's nothing some painkillers and an hour with an ice pack won't fix.

But the military guys are striking camp. He and Louise are running out of time. She vanishes, and Ian's heart leaps into his mouth. He's too far away still when the pod comes to transport her to the alien ship. All he can do is wait and hope, checking the combat knife hidden at the small of his back and knowing the soldiers might try to stop her, to stop him. He hopes it won't come to that.

Louise is important, Ian knows that much. She's the key to this. Somehow.

She comes back in shock. He wraps a blanket around her, bundles her into the truck, hears the words _I know why my husband left me._ It's not the words that startle him, per se: he knows she's never been married, but precognition would be one of the least weird things he's seen in his lifetime. It's the look on her face when she turns to him, glowing, full of terrible hope.

But he's married already. And not to her.

He shivers.

Back at base, he leaves a satellite phone within her reach. Follows her to the tiny office, barricades them in. Offers himself as an obstruction for the guns while she makes the call.

And maybe Ian has his own flash of precognition, because he doesn't say _it surprised me, meeting you._

He saves the world.

And he goes home to his family.


	6. Barton

**I don't own it.**

 **I'm working on a fic for Agents of Shield. That'll be the next thing I post.** ** _The Nature Of The Game,_ in which Phil Coulson, suffering nightmares about his Tahiti holiday and concerned about the latent effects of being stabbed with an Asgardian staff, calls up his old friend, SHIELD's resident expert in Asgardian brainwashing: Clint Barton, Avenger.**

 **Now. It's the big one! Here we go...**

* * *

 **The Bourne Legacy, Part 2**

* * *

He makes the call for pick-up as soon as they land in Manila ( _here,_ Phillipines, 2012). It will take time for Command to scramble a retrieval team, he knows that. It's time Aaron Cross and the doc may not have. But he's going downhill fast. Marta won't have a chance of making it on her own. Even a slim chance is better than none.

It takes the last of his energy to get them through the gate of the chem factory. In the lab, the doc preps the gear while he locks himself in the bathroom and desperately tries to _just breathe._ The mental disconnects are coming more frequently now. They'd be a relief if he wasn't so aware of what they mean. A tiny blissful reprieve from the constant agony of the headaches _._ But they'll only grow worse, and he can't afford that.

He doesn't know if the retrieval team is coming or not. That's not the way it works. He'll find out when they get there — or when they don't. In the meantime, this is his best chance at staying functional enough to keep them alive for another day.

The doc gives him the dose, slow and steady. _Thank you,_ he whispers as the needle goes in, as the plunger presses down. He can see the doubt in her eyes, the circling question of whether she's doing the right thing. He knows that she knows she might have just killed him. The chems were bad enough, even altered by Command as they were. If his system can't handle the viralised blues…

He shoves the thought away and goes to lie down. They've got a bit of time up their sleeves. He can afford half an hour to let the serum do its work.

The guards turn up sixteen minutes later. He takes them down quietly, non-lethally, welcoming the flood of adrenaline. But it's on the ebb by the time they push their way out of the factory through the crowd of pink scrubs. The shakes are setting in, he's nearly doubled over with stomach cramps, and only a hasty hand pressed to his mouth keeps the nausea at bay.

Marta slips an arm round him, helping as best she can. He guides them away from the tourist areas, into the maze of raucous back-blocks, acting more on ingrained instinct than conscious thought. They won't make it across the city to the primary rendezvous point, but he might be able to get them close enough to a secondary. When he knows beyond doubt that he can't walk another block, he slumps against a wall outside a restaurant, tilts his head up to the smog, and manages a hoarse mumble: _Upstairs. See that sign? They rent out rooms. Negotiate, take the fourth offer, use cash, only first names._

The doc slips away into the crowd. Aaron curls his fingers into the rough brick at his back and tries to breathe through the pain.

The knives have moved on from stabbing the backs of his eyes: they're in his brain and down the length of his spinal column, radiating out from his nervous system, gouging into the marrow of his bones. Sweat pours off him. He's been in this sort of climate before. This much sweat isn't normal. The soles of his feet feel like he's been walking barefoot across shattered glass for the last mile: he knows _exactly_ what that feels like, and the sensation is so close it's uncanny. The sounds of the restaurant make him want to scream, the lights make his eyes water, but he can't let his guard down yet. He grits his teeth, squints against the half-light of the darkened street, and lets his gaze slide from one shadow to the next to the next, flicking back, moving on, flicking back.

 _There._

For a moment he freezes. It's nothing out of the ordinary: a lock of red hair tumbling out of a knit hat. A slim hand moves, tucking it back out of sight. Bored green eyes skim over the crowd before dropping back to the menu.

He's been looking too long. He wrenches his eyes away, heart beating too fast, too loud. Too long, he was watching her for too long. She noticed, of course she did. But if he's watching her and she's watching him then it's almost certain other people are watching, too, and she may not even be here for him. She might be on her own mission. If he's blown her cover —

Help.

Aaron Cross doesn't know her. He can't risk another glance in her direction. In his peripheral vision he sees her lay the menu on the table and stand. Again, it's more reflex than conscious action: the ID tag is still under his jacket. _Doctor Karl Brundage._ He twitches it out into the open.

The doc appears at his side. She must have already been talking, because he only catches the second half of the sentence, _— a room, come on._

And then there's an achingly familiar hand on his arm, and a voice like rain in the desert says, _Karl? Hey, bro, are you going to introduce me to your friend?_

He turns his head, meets green eyes, sees the well of worry behind the laughter, but before he can say anything she's got her free hand held out to Marta. _I'm Natalie, I'm Karl's sister. He didn't say he was bringing a friend. It's good to meet you._

 _It's, uh, it's good to meet you too. Natalie._ Marta's doing her best to bury the confusion. The display wouldn't be anywhere near convincing enough for a professional tail, but it's adequate for the crowd of locals.

 _Come on,_ Nat says, already slinging an arm around his back. She's supporting a lot more of his weight than anyone would know by looking at them. _This way._

She's got a car waiting for them, the angel. Nata — _Natalie_ keeps up a quiet flow of conversation with Marta all the way to the hangar where the quinjet waits. Aaron leans against Nat, blinks gritty eyes, tries to follow the movement of traffic outside the window. He doesn't think they're being tailed.

Onboard, he takes up position beside the rear window, watching the entrance to the hangar. Everything's quiet. For now. Nat presses a pistol into his hand; he takes it, checks the magazine, flicks the safety off, all before any semblance of coherent thought hits his brain. He grips the water bottle she hands him with his spare hand. Drains it. Marta drops into a passenger seat, huddling in on herself while Nat slips into the pilot's seat.

He blinks and they're in the air.

Natalie eases the pistol from his hand. Stows it away. Takes his weight again as they shuffle across to the private alcove, where a medical bed awaits. He strips his shirt off before he collapses onto the bed. The air conditioning on his bare chest feels like heaven.

There's something he's forgotten. He scrubs his hands over his face, through his hair, trying to stave off the pain and the exhaustion for long enough to _think._ Think. He's got his backup, his retrieval team. They're safe. They're on their way home. What has he forgotten?

Handover.

The virus. If he doesn't make it…

Handover.

Aaron drops his hands. Seeks out Marta on the far side of the cabin. _Doc,_ he says, rough and quiet.

She comes over, soft-footed, worried. _What is it, Aaron?_

 _Natalie's like me. She'll look after you. If anything happens. Don't worry about me, don't wait for me, you got that? Listen. There's forty thousand cash in the lining of my jacket. You take it, you go with Nat, you get out. Stay low, keep moving. No airports. Head for DC. You understand?_

Her eyes dart to Nat and back to Aaron. She nods.

 _Do you understand?_ he demands, louder that time. Desperate. This is important. She has to _know_ , she has to _survive_. He hasn't dragged them both this far to fail now. Breathing laboured, dripping sweat, he takes her by the shoulders. His grip is tighter than the man behind Aaron Cross would ever grab a woman. _Tell me what you're gonna do!_

She repeats the instructions back to him, faltering once or twice. Fighting hysteria again.

He lets her go. _Okay,_ he says. _Okay._ Concentrates on breathing, fights the undertow of pain. _Thank you._

She laughs, high-pitched and hysterical. _No, thank you. I wouldn't — those people would have — they would have shot me with my own gun, they were going to make it look like —_

He feels terrible about it. He feels terrible about everything. But he tunes her out. Lets his eyes defocus. He hears Natalie move the doc away, get her settled in a bunk on the far side. And then Nat's back, fitting a drip to his arm, wiping away the sweat, drawing blood for a lab analysis. He doesn't move until she's finished, but because he's still Aaron Cross, he doesn't close his eyes, either.

She'll understand.

 _How are you feeling?_ she asks when she's finished.

He shakes his head, eyes dull, and then flinches as the movement drives the knives deeper into the backs of his eyeballs. Flinches again as the first flinch creates even _more_ knives.

Cool hands splay against his temples, holding him still, rubbing gently against the pressure points. Nat draws him forward until his forehead rests in the crook of her shoulder. He goes with it, slumping into the embrace, cherishing the simple act of kindness. He kept the physical contact with Marta to a minimum, too aware of the false intimacy of their situation. But this… this, he can allow. This is Natalie. She's like Aaron.

She's like _him_.

A lump rises in his throat when she cards a hand through his sweat-slick hair. She's warm. Human-warm. He missed this. How long has it been since he's felt the gentle touch of skin on skin? Too long. It's been too long.

He's lived in the mask of the lonely killer too long.

He buries his nose in the softness of her shoulder. Feels the shakes overtake him, threatening to pull him to pieces. He's tired. So tired. Everything hurts. He could sleep for a thousand years. He must have made a muffled noise of distress, because she hushes him. Smoothes a hand over his hair again. Wipes the dampness from his cheeks.

Is he crying? He thinks he's crying. He doesn't care. She put the privacy screen up to shield him from the doc. Command will be watching through the cameras, probably. It's nothing they haven't seen before.

Nat tightens her grip on him, tucks him closer into her shoulder. He curls his fingers in her shirt, hyperaware of the weave of the fabric, the faint smell of sweat under her deodorant, the tang of vomit under his. She's strong. She's so strong, cradling him like this, holding him while he breaks.

He's done it for her before. They've held each other like this a dozen times, on a dozen missions, times when one or both of them reaches the end of their strength.

After a while he realises he's muttering against her skin, where the cameras can't see his lips move. _Natalie. Natalie. Natalie._ A reminder for himself. A promise. An offering of thanks. _Natalie. Natalie._

He doesn't know when sleep takes him. She lays him stomach-down on the bed, mindful of the wires. One of his hands dangles over the edge, calloused and bruised. He mumbles something incoherent, cheek pressed to the pillow, sweat shining on fever-flushed skin.

She curls into the seat beside him and tangles her fingers with his, and he quiets.


End file.
